‘I turned and picked them up. It was all good clean fun—no one was hurt. When I’d got them out of the water I took them back to Algiers—the noble rescuer. You ought to have seen the faces of the Security boys when I pitched up. Of course, they had to go through the motions of thanking me for rescuing those lousy, shipwrecked mariners. I kept a straight face and said I thought it must have been one of the antisubmarine depth charges in the stern that had gone off. They said it couldn’t have been that because police boats don’t carry depth charges. And that was that.’
He chuckled. ‘No, they don’t like me in Algiers.’
I laughed with him. It was a good story and he had told it well.
I was in two minds about Metcalfe; he had his advantages and his disadvantages. On the one hand, he could give us a lot of help in Tangier; he knew the ropes and had the contacts. On the other hand, we had to be careful he didn’t get wind of what we were doing. He was a hell of a good chap and all that, but if he knew we were going to show up with four tons of gold he would hijack us without a second thought. We were his kind of meat.
Yes, we had to be very careful in our dealings with Mr Metcalfe. I made a mental note to tell the others not to let anything drop in his presence.
I said, ‘What kind of boat have you got?’
‘A Fairmile,’ he said. ‘I’ve re-engined it, of course.’
I knew of the Fairmiles, but I had never seen one close up. They had been built in the hundreds during the war for harbour defence. The story was that they were built by the mile and cut off as needed. They were 112 feet overall with powerful engines and could work up over twenty knots easily, but they had the reputation of being bad rollers in a cross sea. They were not armoured or anything like that, being built of wood, and when a few of them went into St Nazaire with the Campbelltown they got shot up very badly.
After the war you could buy a surplus Fairmile for about five thousand quid and they had become a favourite with the smugglers of Tangier. If Metcalfe had re-engined his Fairmile, he had probably gone for power to outrun the revenue cutters and his boat would be capable of at least twenty-six knots in an emergency. Sanford would have no chance of outrunning a boat like that if it came to the push.
‘I’d like to see her sometime,’ I said. There was no harm in looking over a potential enemy.
‘Sure,’ said Metcalfe expansively. ‘But not just yet. I’m going out tomorrow night.’
That was good news—with Metcalfe out of the way we might be able to go about our business undisturbed. ‘When are you coming back?’ I asked.
‘Some time next week,’ he said. ‘Depending on the wind and the rain and suchlike things.’
‘Such as those French Security bastards?’
‘That’s right,’ he said carelessly. ‘Let’s eat.’
II
Metcalfe made us free of his flat and said we could live there in his absence—the servants would look after us. That afternoon he took me round town and introduced me to several people. Some were obviously good contacts to have, such as a ship’s chandler and a boat builder. Others were not so obviously good; there was a villainous-looking café proprietor, a Greek with no discernible occupation and a Hungarian who explained volubly that he was a ‘Freedom Fighter’ who had escaped from Hungary after the abortive revolution of 1956. I was particularly cynical about him.
I think that Metcalfe was unobtrusively passing the word that we were friends of his, and so immune to any of the usual tricks played on passing yachtsmen. Metcalfe was not a bad man to have around if he was your friend and you were a yachtsman. But I was not a yachtsman and that made Metcalfe a potential bomb.
Before we left the flat I had the chance to talk to Coertze and Walker privately. I said, ‘Here’s where we keep our mouths shut and stick to our cover story. We don’t do a damn’ thing until Metcalfe has pushed off—and we try to finish before he gets back.’
Walker said, ‘Why, is he dangerous?’
‘Don’t you know about Metcalfe?’ I explained who he was. They had both heard of him; he had made quite a splash in the South African Press—the reporters loved to write about such a colourful character.
‘Oh, that Metcalfe,’ said Walker, impressed.
Coertze said, ‘He doesn’t look much to me. He won’t be any trouble.’
‘It’s not Metcalfe alone,’ I said. ‘He’s got an organization and he’s on his own territory. Let’s face it; he’s a professional and we’re amateurs. Steer clear of Metcalfe.’
I felt like adding ‘and that’s an order,’ but I didn’t. Coertze might have taken me up on it and I didn’t want to force a showdown with him yet. It would come of its own accord soon enough.
So for a day and a half we were tourists in Tangier, rubbernecking our way about the town. If we hadn’t had so much on our minds it might have been interesting, but as it was, it was a waste of time.
Luckily, Metcalfe was preoccupied by his own mysterious business and we saw little of him. However, I did instruct Walker to ask one crucial question before Metcalfe left.
Over breakfast, he said, ‘You know—I like Tangier. It might be nice to stay here for a few months. Is the climate always like this?’
‘Most of the time,’ answered Metcalfe. ‘It’s a good, equable climate. There’s lots of people retire here, you know.’
Walker smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not thinking of retiring. I’ve nothing to retire from.’ He was proving to be a better actor than I had expected—that touch was perfect. He said, ‘No, what I thought was that I might like to buy a house here. Somewhere I could live a part of the year.’
‘I should have thought the Med. would be your best bet,’ said Metcalfe. ‘The Riviera, or somewhere like that.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Walker. ‘This seems to be as good a place as any, and the Riviera is so crowded these days.’ He paused as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘I’d want a boat, of course. Could you design one for me? I’d have it built in England.’
‘Sure I could,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is pay me enough.’
‘Yes,’ said Walker. ‘You can’t do without the old boat, can you?’
He was laying it on a bit too thick and I could see that Metcalfe was regarding him with amused contempt, so I said quickly, ‘He’s a damned good sailor. He nearly ran off with the Cape Dinghy Championship last year.’
That drew Metcalfe as I knew it would. ‘Oh,’ he said with more respect, and for a few minutes he and Walker talked boats. At last Walker came out with it. ‘You know, what would be really perfect would be a house on the coast somewhere with its own anchorage and boat-shed. Everything self-contained, as it were.’
‘Thinking of joining us?’ asked Metcalfe with a grin.
‘Oh, no,’ said Walker, horrified. ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve. I’ve got enough money, and besides, I don’t like your smelly Fairmiles with their stinking diesel oil. No, I was thinking about a real boat, a sailing boat.’
He turned to me. ‘You know, the more I think about it the better I like it. You could design a 10-tonner for me, something I could handle myself, and this place is a perfect jumping-off place for the Caribbean. A transatlantic crossing might be fun.’
He confided in Metcalfe. ‘You know, these ocean-crossing johnnies are all very well, but most of them are broke and they have to live on their boats. Why should I do that? Think how much better it would be if I had a house here with a boat-shed at the bottom of the garden, as it were, where I could tune the boat for the trip instead of lying in that stinking harbour.’
It was a damned good idea if you were a wealthy playboy with a yen to do a single-handed Atlantic crossing. I gave Walker full credit for his inventive powers.
Metcalfe didn’t find it unreasonable, either. He said, ‘Not a bad idea if you can afford it. I tell you what; go and see Aristide, a friend of mine. He’ll try to rent you a flat, he’s got dozens empty, but tell him that I sent you and he’ll be more reasonable.’ He scribbled an addre
ss on a piece of paper and handed it to Walker.
‘Oh, thanks awfully,’ said Walker. ‘It’s really very kind of you.’
Metcalfe finished his coffee. ‘I’ve got to go now; see you tonight before I leave.’
When he had gone Coertze, who had sat through all this with no expression at all on his face, said, ‘I’ve been thinking about the go…’
I kicked his ankle and jerked my head at the Moroccan servant who had just come into the room. ‘Tula,’ I said. ‘Moenie hier praat nie.’ Then in English, ‘Let’s go out and have a look round.’
We left the flat and sat at a table of a nearby café. I said to Coertze, ‘We don’t know if Metcalfe’s servants speak English or not, but I’m taking no chances. Now, what did you want to say?’
He said, ‘I’ve been thinking about bringing the gold in here. How are we going to do it? You said yesterday that bullion has to be declared at Customs. We can’t come in and say, ‘Listen, man; I’ve got a golden keel on this boat and I think it weighs about four tons.’
‘I’ve been thinking of that myself,’ I said. ‘It looks as though we’ll have to smuggle it in, recast it into standard bars, smuggle it out again a few bars at a time, then bring the bars in openly and declare them at Customs.’
‘That’s going to take time,’ objected Coertze. ‘We haven’t got the time.’
I sighed. ‘All right; let’s take a good look at this time factor. Today is 12th January and Tangier shuts up shop as far as gold is concerned on 19th April—that’s—let me see, er—ninety-seven days—say fourteen weeks.’
I began to calculate and to allocate this time. It would be a week before we left Tangier and another fortnight to get to Italy. That meant another fortnight coming back, too, and I would like a week spare in case of bad weather. That disposed of six weeks. Two weeks for making preparations and for getting the gold out, and three weeks for casting the keel—eleven weeks altogether, leaving a margin of three weeks. We were cutting it fine.
I said, ‘We’ll have to see what the score is when we get back here with the gold. Surely to God someone will buy it, even if it is in one lump. But we don’t say anything until we’ve got it.’
I began to have some visions of sailing back to Egypt or even India like some sort of modern Flying Dutchman condemned to sail the seas in a million pound yacht.
Walker did not go much for these planning sessions. He was content to leave that to Coertze and me. He had been sitting listening with half an ear, studying the address which Metcalfe had given him.
Suddenly he said, ‘I thought old Aristide would have been an estate agent, but he’s not.’ He read the address from the slip of paper. ‘“Aristide Theotopopoulis, Tangier Mercantile Bank, Boulevard Pasteur.” Maybe we could ask him something about it.’
‘Not a chance,’ I said derisively. ‘He’s a friend of Metcalfe.’ I looked at Walker. ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘You did very well with Metcalfe this morning, but for God’s sake, don’t put on that phoney Oxford accent, and less of that “thanks awfully” stuff. Metcalfe’s a hard man to fool; besides, he’s been to South Africa and knows the score. You’d have done better to put on a Malmesbury accent, but it’s too late to change now. But tone it down a bit, will you?’
Walker grinned and said, ‘O.K, old chappie.’
I said, ‘Now we’ll go and see Aristide Theoto-whatever-it-is. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we hired a car, too. It’ll help us get around and it adds to the cover. We are supposed to be rich tourists, you know.’
III
Aristide Theotopopoulis was a round man. His girth was roughly equal to his height, and as he sat down he creased in the middle like a half-inflated football bladder. Rolls of fat flowed over his collar from his jowls and the back of his neck. Even his hands were round—pudgy balls of fat with the glint of gold shining from deeply embedded rings.
‘Ah, yes, Mr Walker; you want a house,’ he said. ‘I received a phone call from Mr Metcalfe this morning. I believe I have the very thing.’ His English was fluent and colloquial.
‘You mean you have such a house?’ inquired Walker.
‘Of course! Why do you suppose Mr Metcalfe sent you to me? He knows the Casa Saeta.’ He paused. ‘You don’t mind if it’s an old house?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not at all,’ replied Walker easily. ‘I can afford any alterations provided the house suits me.’ He caught my eye, then said, hastily, ‘But I would like to suggest that I rent it for six months with an option to buy.’
Aristide’s face lengthened from a circle to an ellipse. ‘Very well, if that is what you wish,’ he said dubiously.
He took us up the north coast in a Cadillac with Coertze following in our hired car. The house looked like something from a Charles Addams’ cartoon and I expected to see Boris Karloff peering from a window. There was no Moorish influence at all; it was the most hideous Victorian Gothic in the worst possible taste. But that didn’t matter if it could give us what we wanted.
We went into the house and looked cursorily over the worm-eaten panelling and viewed the lack of sanitation. The kitchen was primitive and there was a shaggy garden at the back of the house. Beyond was the sea and we looked over a low cliff to the beach.
It was perfect. There was a boat-house big enough to take Sanford once we unstepped the mast, and there was a crude slip badly in need of repair. There was even a lean-to shed where we could set up our foundry.
I looked at everything, estimating how long it would take to put in order, then I took Coertze on one side while Aristide extolled the beauties of the house to Walker.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘Man, I think we should take it. There can’t be another place like this in the whole of North Africa.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ I said. ‘I hope we can find something like this in Italy. We can get local people to fix up the slip, and with a bit of push we should be finished in a week. We’ll have to do some token work on the house, but the bulk of the money must go on essentials—there’ll be time to make the house livable when we come back. I’ll tip Walker off about that; he’s good at thinking up wacky reasons for doing the damnedest things.’
We drifted back to Walker and Aristide who were still going at it hammer and tongs, and I gave Walker an imperceptible nod. He smiles dazzlingly at Aristide, and said, ‘It’s no use, Mr Theotopopoulis, you can’t talk me out of taking this house. I’m determined to have it at once—on a six months’ rental, of course.’
Aristide, who hadn’t any intention of talking anyone out of anything, was taken aback, but making a game recovery, said, ‘You understand, Mr Walker, I can give no guarantees…’ His voice tailed off, giving the impression that he was doing Walker a favour.
‘That’s all right, old man,’ said Walker gaily. ‘But I must have a six months’ option on the house, too. Remember that.’
‘I think that can be arranged,’ said Aristide with spurious dubiety.
‘Won’t it be fun, living in this beautiful house?’ said Walker to me. I glared at him. That was the trouble with Walker; he got wrapped up in his part too much. My glare went unnoticed because he had turned to Aristide. ‘The house isn’t haunted, or anything like that?’ he demanded, as though he equated ghosts with dead rats in the wainscotting.
‘Oh, no,’ said Aristide hurriedly. ‘No ghosts.’
‘A pity,’ said Walker negligently. ‘I’ve always wanted to live in a haunted house.’
I saw Aristide changing his mind about the ghosts, so I spoke hastily to break up this buffoonery. I had no objection to Aristide thinking he was dealing with a fool, but no one could be as big a damn’ fool as Walker was acting and I was afraid that Aristide might smell a rat.
I said, ‘Well, I suggest we go back to Mr Theotopopoulis’s office and settle the details. It’s getting late and I have to do some work on the boat.’
To Coertze, I said, ‘There’s no need for you to come. We’ll meet you for lunch a
t the restaurant we went to last night.’
I had watched his blood pressure rising at Walker’s fooleries and I wanted him out of the way in case he exploded. It’s damned difficult working with people, especially antagonistic types like Walker and Coertze.
We went back to Aristide’s office and it all went off very well. He stung us for the house, but I had no objection to that. No one who splashed money around like Walker could be anything but an honest man.
Then Walker said something that made my blood run cold, although afterwards, on mature consideration, I conceded that he had built up his character so that he could get away with it. He said to Aristide, ‘Tangier is a funny place. I hear you’ve got bars of gold scattered about all over the place.’
Aristide smiled genially. He had cut his pound of flesh and was willing to waste a few minutes in small talk; besides, this idiot Walker was going to live in Tangier—he could be milked a lot more. ‘Not scattered, exactly,’ he said. ‘We keep our gold in very big safes.’
‘Um,’ said Walker. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing, but I’ve lived all my life in South Africa where they mine scads of gold, and I’ve never seen any. You can’t buy gold in South Africa, you know.’
Aristide raised his eyebrows as though this was unheard of.
‘I’ve heard you can buy gold here by the pound like buying butter over the counter. It might be fun to buy some gold. Imagine me with all my money and I’ve never seen a gold bar,’ he said pathetically. ‘I’ve got a lot of money, you know. Most people say I’ve got too much.’
Aristide frowned. This was heresy; in his book no one could have too much money. He became very earnest. ‘Mr Walker, the best thing anyone can do in these troubled times is to buy gold. It’s the only safe investment. The value of gold does not fluctuate like these unstable paper currencies.’ With a flick of his fingers he stripped the pretentions from the U.S. dollar and the pound sterling. ‘Gold does not rust or waste away; it is always there, always safe and valuable. If you want to invest, I am always willing to sell gold.’
The Golden Keel / The Vivero Letter Page 7